


wait for me in the sky

by heavensfallingaroundus



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dead Patroclus, Just something I couldn't stop thinking about, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29164767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus
Summary: "Wait for me, Patroclus."
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 44





	wait for me in the sky

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, hi.
> 
> Let me introduce myself: I'm a long time fan of Greek myth and literature, newly introduced to the piece of work that is Madeline Miller's retelling of the Iliad, who has been writing gay-ass fic for years and literally can't stop thinking about these two. I also like listening to music a bit too much, so I made [this playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6RlE52OsmbbxuiH7jqpvTQ?si=F50mA2wARCO3XZKbFixkbA), to inspire me and to just channel some of the feelings that are trying to overwhelm me.
> 
> The book, the story, their love. It's all just. So. Beautiful. AAAAH!!!
> 
> This little fic is my first attempt at writing within this world; I hope it's worth your time. ❤

_Wait for me, Patroclus._

I see him wave off the servant proffering his breakfast tray, like he has done every day since Hector struck me at the Scaean Gate.

I see him pick up his spear. I see him get his helmet on—just the helmet, not the rest of his armour, that ornate breastplate and those sturdy greaves and that thick, impenetrable shield, forged by Hephaistos himself, now lying in a corner of our tent, a thick layer of dust and sand gathering on top of it. I see him stride out to kill more Trojans.

He is weak now. It has been ten days, and he is weak.

Agamemnon can see it, and it worries him.

Menelaus can see it, and guilt gnaws at his insides.

I can see it, and it breaks me.

*

“Wait for me, Patroclus,” he whispers, as he pulls his spear out of another young man, whose spirit I can now faintly see trying to escape his body, then getting cruelly tugged back to the earth where his blood is now running thick and dark and copious. Only a proper burial can free it. I know it better than everyone.

He turns, and I do not see it because he is too quick, but I do see the aftermath: he has just hacked another one’s hand off with his sword. It is a clean cut, so precise that it would almost look painless, were it not for the horror now painted on the man’s face, his eyes streaming with tears, and the crimson spurts coming out of the stump he’s now clutching to his chest.

Helpless, I look away. Back to him, then. The sheer disgust on his face, the grime and streaks of dried blood that would make anyone look grotesque—but he, the golden boy, the jewel of the Achaeans, can hardly help his true, god-like beauty from shining through. 

He spits on the ground, briefly locks eyes with the man, then turns his back and walks off. He is sparing this one’s life; not worth it, it seems. The man starts backing away, but doesn’t turn around: he is transfixed, his eyes still on—

An Achaean spear finds him.

*

_Wait for me, Patroclus._

Very few dare to actually attack him, these days. He is like a wild beast, more lion than man, alone in a sandy pit once immaculate and white, now pink and red and black from the countless times we have tried piercing the Trojan lines; the times when so many of ours and so many of theirs have fallen.

The ones that do go out against him—I know, he knows, everybody knows—are on a suicidal mission: he is weak, but he never misses his mark.

Every time I look at him, his eyes flickering left and right when he is preparing to attack, weighing his strength and calculating his every move, I can almost see Athena whispering in his ear, her stern grey eyes as steely and bright as her _aegis_. Petrifying. He has always been the sun, to me, golden and warm and perfect—but he’s the moon, then, silver and icy and deadly.

When he strikes, however, he is Ares. The silver turns into red rage, and his honey-sweet voice transforms into the fiercest, most chilling sound, one that I would never have thought him capable of making—he, whose song I longed to listen to in any waking moment we spent together, and then dreamt about when Morpheus took me every night.

His blade is merciless, and his pain complete and all-consuming. He could do this blindfolded.

*

“Wait for me, Patroclus.”

He says it out loud once more, one last time, raising his eyes from the golden arrowhead peeking out of his naked breast, looking out, past the dismayed faces of the Myrmidons, past the Spartans, past the women and children, into the blue depths of the Aegean.

They might not have spoken in months, but I know what is happening: in his last hour, he is calling to her.

I cannot hear what he is asking for, but I can feel a breeze lift from the sea. She heard him, and he knows. His face—his beautiful, young, untarnished face, one that could have grown old and changed, one that I could have traced with the tips of my fingers and kissed every morning and every night for years to come, if only he had chosen a long, blissful anonymity over a short blaze of glory—is more serene than I have seen it in years.

When he falls to his knees, he is smiling.

When a loud roar erupts from the Trojan ranks, he starts laughing.

I can see our men, stunned, uncomprehending, rushing to his aid. He has expired before they can get to him.

He dies with my name on his lips. _Pat-ro-clus._

***

_Wait for me, Achilles._

I pray. Every day that passes, I pray. I pray to all the gods I know. (All but two.)

I find a lot of hatred inside me, that I did not know I had been harbouring all this time. It is hatred for Aphrodite and Apollo and Paris and Pyrrhus. It is hatred for Agamemnon. It is hatred even for the poor herald that came to get us, that day, on Mount Pelion. (Most of all, it is hatred for time not stopping right then, when we were up there, and just leaving us be.)

And it is hatred for Odysseus, too. He knew. He _knew_ what Achilles was to me, and I to him. He could have just left us on Skyros, gone, sailed away to look for him on another island. He could have told them he had not found him. He never wanted this war, either. We had to suffer because _he_ had to suffer. Curse his unbearable wits, and curse the pile of arid rocks he calls home. May he never return there. May he feel the pain I am feeling—that I will be feeling forever.

I curl up in front of Achilles’ grave, and I weep. I weep and I weep and I wail and I tear out my hair, but it keeps growing back. My ashes are here, in the ground under my hands and knees. His ashes are here too; we should be together by now, like he wanted, like he _asked_ —but we are not.

*

_Wait for me, Achilles._

One day, like he did when he was dying, I also turn towards the stormy waves, wishing they could swallow me. But then, just then, an idea strikes. It is an impossible idea that just will not go away, no matter how much I try not to think about it. Surely, it is ludicrous. Surely, it can never happen. Surely, she will never—

Still, I take a deep breath, and I call out.

I close my eyes, and listen to the complete silence around me. 

I don’t know how much time passes.

A breeze rises from the sea.

I smile.

Maybe, I think. Just maybe, this time she will listen.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and special thanks to [Johaerys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys) for inspiring me to actually write this one down.  
> If you enjoyed it, please feel free to let me know by dropping some love ❤
> 
> And in case you feel like chatting, you can find me on tumblr, I'm [applesfallingfromblondehair](https://applesfallingfromblondehair.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> I'll most likely be back soon.
> 
> Love,
> 
> C xx


End file.
